


and the birds were singing

by moorglade



Series: between two mirrors is a life lived in parallel [3]
Category: Cycling RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - No COVID, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cycling, Domestic Fluff, Don't Have to Know Canon, Established Relationship, Gen, Living Together, Nothing more explicit than that, Racing, Tagged as both gen and ship because you can read it either way, Tour de France, bike racing, hand holding, take your pick of whether they're close bffs or in a qpr or banging continually offscreen, whatever you see their relationship as
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:02:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26560333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moorglade/pseuds/moorglade
Summary: It's been a very long three weeks, but now it's time to go home.
Relationships: Romain Bardet & Warren Barguil, Romain Bardet/Warren Barguil
Series: between two mirrors is a life lived in parallel [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1806787
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	and the birds were singing

After the ride into Paris, it was the same sense of release as on the last day of school. All around Romain people were laughing and cheering, sharing a drink with dear friends who for three weeks had been bitter rivals. It was a hot summer night, and he could still smell the fireworks, mingling with perfume and wine and something he could only think of as intrinsically Paris. 

Romain eased softly between the happy, noisy crowd, his quiet demeanour letting him pass unnoticed, now he was no longer wearing his yellow presentation jersey. He was first back at the team bus, and he showered and changed again in the silence. He left a note pinned to his seat. He’d already notified the anti-doping authorities, and tonight no one from the team would care if he wasn't in his assigned room at the hotel. Half of them would sleep in other beds than their own, but that wasn't quite Romain's plan. 

He hadn't got a phone signal – the network, as usual, completely overloaded by the sheer number of people – but Romain kept walking, knowing he'd find what he was looking for. The race itself was long over, just history now, but the evening was still alive with people celebrating. Romain spared a smile for the occasional group, but he didn't linger or turn aside. 

Warren was waiting near the podium, looking up at the Moon. Romain touched his hand, and they began walking together. 

As they approached the brighter lights they were recognised at once, and the crowd surged and pushed against them, demanding autographs and selfies. Romain obliged mechanically, wishing he could hide behind his sunglasses. It felt like a never-ending wave of people breaking against them, but at last they reached the steps down to the station. It was hard to squeeze their bikes onto the packed Métro, but once they were recognised a cheer went up, and somehow space was made. 

In the hot, crowded carriage everything seemed a bit too loud, a bit too close. Romain nodded and smiled and didn't say much, but for a moment Warren's hand slipped into his, unnoticed in the commotion. Romain squeezed back, and managed a brighter smile for the young fans telling him he was their hero. 

They weren't quite borne off the Métro on the shoulders of the crowd, but it was close. Romain was thankful for the more focused hubbub of the main line station, where the Tour was more of a interruption to commuters than an excuse for a party. They'd really arrived too late, but at the barriers the station staff's eyes widened a little, and they held the train. On board, once their bikes were stowed safely, the guard told them at length about the races he'd been to see. Warren chattered away with him, and Romain let his thoughts drift out through the window into the night. 

When they switched trains, it was away from the main line. The station was quiet, with perhaps twenty other tired travellers sipping coffee and staring down at their phones. Romain nodded back to one or two smiles sent their way, but no one spoke to either of them. Warren found a bench in an out of the way corner, and they sat quietly until the local train came shuffling in. 

The guard, an old friend, grinned at both of them as they boarded. “Quiet tonight,” he said. “You'll be glad of that, I'm thinking.” Romain sighed thankfully. They were the only passengers save a young couple more interested in each other than two tired cyclists, and an elderly neighbour who bade them good evening and went back to his book. By the time the train reached the end of the line Warren was asleep, his head resting on Romain's shoulder, and Romain was propping open his own eyelids. 

The cooler night air outside helped revive him. The stars were very bright, now the city had been left behind, and the breeze smelled of the sea. Warren shivered, rubbing his eyes and yawning, and Romain handed his bike out to him. The road wound gently downwards out of the hills, and by the time they reached the village they were both listening out for the lapping of the waves. 

They stacked both bikes in the boat with the ease of long practice, and cast off, waving back to the fishermen unloading their catch. As soon as they slipped away from the harbour, Romain felt the peace he'd missed for three weeks begin to settle over him. Warren rowed in silence, as though he too had begun to centre himself again. Twenty minutes later, they were carrying the boat over the shingle into the boat shed. 

The house was very quiet, the air stuffy with three weeks of emptiness. Warren disappeared into the garage with their bikes, and Romain went round every room, opening windows and stirring the air; reminding the house it was lived in again. Then he went to the kitchen to fetch a bottle of wine and two glasses. Tonight, they had earned this. 

The living room was still dark, but the window was thrown wide, a perfect square of deep blue and starlight. Warren was sat on the couch, his face buried in his hands, and his shoulders were shaking. 

Setting the wine on the table, Romain went to him. Warren resisted for a moment, but then all the tension holding him so stiffly upright was gone, and his tears fell hotly onto Romain's shoulder. Romain put his arms round him, but he didn't speak, letting Warren have the space just to feel. The Tour was so big, so intense, so overwhelming, and for both of them it had been three weeks of channelling every emotion they had into the race. But here, now, at home, it was time to let go. 

Romain loved his job, most of the time. He loved that he got to see and experience more of the world than most people would in their whole lifetimes. He loved the new foods, the new people, the new scenery, and the times something far from home unexpectedly touched his heart with its similarity to something he knew like the back of his hand. 

But all the travelling, all of the newness, meant nothing without being able to come back home again. Home was the sea breeze blowing through the window, and the sound of the waves breaking on their very own shore. Home was sitting on his own couch with Warren in his arms, really a little too hot and sweaty for the summer night, but soothing an ache Romain had been bearing for the whole race. 

With one hand he uncorked the wine, pouring himself a glass. Warren mumbled something heartfelt but incomprehensible into his shoulder, but he didn't move. Romain sipped his wine and rubbed soft circles against Warren's back, and slow waves of peace rolled over him. 

In the morning, there would be calls from team managers. There would be training schedules. For Romain there would be the impact of the race to deal with, and a new future to navigate, which would of course affect Warren too. Things would change, as they always did, new circumstances ebbing and flowing like the tide. And then there were practical considerations, such as discovering whether the caretakers had provided any shopping, or whether they were reduced to frozen bread and whatever tins were left in the pantry. 

But all of that they would handle together in the morning, although Romain supposed it was certainly now so late that it was early. He sat there for a long time, watching as the square of blue gradually grew paler, turning first to silver and then to gold. Warren had long ago drifted into sleep; a warm, contented weight in Romain's arms. But Romain was watching and waiting for the sun. 

Their house was built among the trees, and in the summer almost all their views were just glimpses of the sea seen through rustling green leaves. But here in the living room the one big window looked out unobstructedly to the east. 

Romain meant to stay awake. As he watched the sky lighten, the first birds began singing in the trees, welcoming the dawn with their song. Romain's eyes grew heavier and heavier, and the empty wine glass drooped from his hand. He knew he should go round the house to close the blinds before the heat of the day set in, and he couldn't remember whether either he or Warren had locked the back door. But he was warm, and so comfortable, and for the moment nothing was demanded of him other than that he just be. He didn't even remember the moment when the familiar things around him blurred into the world of dreams. 

When Romain awoke, he yawned, and stretched, and opened his eyes slowly. It took him a moment to realise he was lying on his own couch, his head resting against Warren's side. Warren stirred, and smiled down at him, sweet and inexpressibly tender, and Romain knew that a new day had begun. 


End file.
